


si vis amari (ama)

by chantefable



Category: Frontier Wolf - Rosemary Sutcliff
Genre: Dreams, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:16:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22603837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chantefable/pseuds/chantefable
Summary: Hilarion wants to be more than friends.But he is not doing much about it.
Relationships: Alexios Flavius Aquila/Hilarion
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	si vis amari (ama)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Verecunda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verecunda/gifts).



"Accord of mind creates friendship."

Democritus

"For often, when one is asleep, there is something in consciousness which declares that what then presents itself is but a dream."

Aristotle

***

One cannot evade destiny, so surely it was meant to be that the Numerus of First Attacotti Frontier Scouts had left Britannia to forge new meaning into their lives under the watchful gaze of their Praepositus. Their days were busy and full of bustle, just like the existence revolving around frontiers and fortifications usually is, and it was neither unusual nor unexpected that Hilarion would oftentimes find himself dead on his feet, what with him being Senior Centenarius. His Praepositus Alexios Flavius Aquila was determined to ensure that the meagre six weeks of training at Corstopitum were milked for all that they were worth and spared no effort to new educational ventures in between the urgent daily tasks they needed to perform. Oftentimes, it exhausted him more than his scouts, but he struggled to make it less obvious, and so Hilarion did not wish to draw too much attention to the fact that Aquila clearly needed to spare himself more. Instead of voicing his numerous thoughts on the subject, Hilarion committed himself to his duties, and if he could not help being equally committed to fretting and obsessing, he hoped that he at least succeed in making it subtle. However, the occasional exasperated glance Aquila would send his way strongly suggested that Hilarion was not that good at concealing concern and discontent. 

Most days, Hilarion was assured that this was all that those glances meant, and refused to flay himself open over the inopportune feelings which he never meant to inconvenience Aquila with. They had gained an accord of minds, a friendship both akin to and different from the ones they had lost, and Hilarion did not wish to be careless with something so precious. Although he craved clarity, he did not speak, and he most certainly did not act.

Most nights, Hilarion went to bed and fell asleep like one falls into a black pit, deep and dreamless, and had neither time nor will to dwell on the bloody past and the murky present of his life.

And some nights, Hilarion would dream a strange dream. The waves of consciousness carried him from a cold and harried place of absence, Lucius being put into the ground without him, and a whistling gust of wind raising agitation in his battered flesh. In the dream, he was exhausted, as if there had been ten battles fought ten times over. On the fringes of his thoughts, he knew that it was all past, and yet he knew with equal conviction that it was all real: the whinny of the ponies, the desperately advancing shadows, the gaping maw of the blood-red sunset, and the Commander about to go and fight Cunorix.

But the dream held him tight in its grip, no matter what Hilarion did. Sensations were fluttering, fickle and faint, but deep in his breastbone, he felt a gnawing pain that was raw and undeniable. There was a sword in his hand and an eerie noise filled his ears, like the whisper of falling snow or the hushed pant of a lover. 

His feet carried him to the Commander as if their own accord. Hilarion felt needed, anxious, and he could howl with uncertainty. He knew that something was wrong, and a part of him, the one that knew he was dreaming, knew exactly what it was: Alexios offering himself up in exchange for a few hours of rest for his men, so that they could regain strength and fight. His Commander would go out and raise his sword against his darling friend for this, and spend all that was in his heart for this.

But Hilarion walked, as if this was the first and only time, and watched Alexios unbind the stained and tattered silken rags of the Ordo dragon from his waist... that never happened, he never saw this, but oh, in this strange, feverish dream, Hilarion saw Alexios take it off and be impossibly naked before Hilarion's eyes. In his muddled mind, Hilarion saw it time and time again. And although it was a horrible dream, he could never force himself to wake up.

Time flowed, soft and unctuous like fresh milk, as Hilarion slipped low along the breastwork to his Commander's side. 

“Sir?” He spoke, and breath abandoned him. He was so beautiful. Hilarion did not wish him to die. He was so afraid. Awake, he could never admit just how much he had been afraid for Alexios, and what selfish, intimate reasons pushed him face-first into this indecorous fear.

“Take charge of this,” Alexios said, every time, holding out the flattened mask. And Hilarion watched the bright rags and the brightness of Alexios' eyes, and could be nothing but earnest.

He could not speak. The hum of blood in his temples deafened him, terrible like the sound of a thousand arrows being shot at once. He thought, 'What would you be thinking of doing, Sir?' He thought, 'What do you need me to do, Alexios?' He thought, 'Anything, anything, be well.'

But Alexios was not well, neither then nor in the dream. He was not well in the waking world, either. Every time Hilarion watched him out and about, looking pale and harried in the light of mellow sunshine of Belgica, he wanted to lift some of the burden off his shoulders.

And in the sticky dream, Hilarion dared to reach out and put his arms around Alexios' strong yet vulnerable body, breathing his naked, silky smooth skin.

“I shall take charge of this, Sir.” 

That was how he woke up, every time.

  
***

"If you wish to be loved, love."

Seneca


End file.
